


right back where we started from

by maddy_does (favefangirl)



Series: carry on countdown 2020 [26]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Break Up, Hopeful Ending, Insecure Simon, Insecure Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Jealous Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, M/M, Not Wayward Son Compliant, POV First Person, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Penelope Bunce & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Friendship, Post-Book 1: Carry On, Sort Of, wayward son rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:35:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28179936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/favefangirl/pseuds/maddy_does
Summary: "Missing?" I repeated. "Where?"Penelope looked at me like I was mad, which was fair. But, Crowley, I'd only just got out of the shower, and there she was at my flat telling me that Simon disappeared in the middle of the night and she'd no one else to turn to. What's a guy meant to do with that?
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: carry on countdown 2020 [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026733
Kudos: 33
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2020





	right back where we started from

**Author's Note:**

> Carry On Countdown Day 26, Dec 20: Break [up] 
> 
> Title from California by Phantom Planet

Three years ago Simon Snow and I were huddled together in the kitchens at Watford eating sandwiches one-handed, the others clasped together between us. His head was on my shoulder, and our legs were pressed firmly together.

Two years ago, I showed up on Simon and Penelope's doorstep with boxes full of my things waiting to find a new home in Simon's bedroom. Penelope grinned when she saw me. Simon ... didn't.

One year ago Simon and I had a huge fight and I slept on the sofa - "It was my bed before it was yours, Baz!" - tossing and turning the whole night. The fight was about sex. We made up the next morning, but I think the damage had been done. 

Six months ago, Simon stopped Skyping his therapist. I asked him why and he said that she wasn't helping him anymore. Penelope tried pushing it, and Simon stormed out in a huff. He got home after Penelope and I had gone to bed. Simon slept pressed against the wall on his side of the bed. I don't think he wanted to accidently touch me in the night.

One month ago Simon Snow wouldn't get off the sofa. He barely ate the food Penelope and I gave him, he didn't speak, and he definitely didn't let anyone touch him. He spent every night on the sofa - "It's your bed too, Baz, so just drop it, yeah?" - and I spent every night tossing and turning.

One week ago Simon and I broke up. It had been a long time coming, we both knew, and Simon had been the one to finally end it. He said there was no direction to anything anymore. What we were was a thing of the past. I couldn't find the words to argue. Penelope cried when I stood on their doorstep with my packed boxes, silent and sombre. It hadn't occurred to me until then but I was losing her, too. I moved into a flat on my own across London and cried on my own doorstep.

Yesterday Simon Snow was missing and I was that naive little boy in the Watford kitchen trading kisses with my - what, ex-rival? Ally? Boyfriend? - _Simon_ , that tasted like hope and lingered like the future, feeling in that moment that we were invincible and everything was possible without a single consideration that anything might go wrong.

"Missing?" I repeated. "Where?"

Penelope looked at me like I was mad, which was fair. But, Crowley, I'd only just got out of the shower, and there she was at my flat telling me that Simon disappeared in the middle of the night and she'd no one else to turn to. What's a guy meant to do with that?

"Sorry," I acquiesced. "Maybe he just went out? Saw a friend?" I didn't say boyfriend, but that's what I meant.

Penelope shook her head. Her eyes were too wide and a little wild and she must have gotten dressed in the dark because her socks didn't match and I think she had her t-shirt on back to front. Her hair is always a mess but it looked worse somehow, like she'd been dragging her fingers through it, like Simon. 

"Baz," she'd huffed. She did a 180 on the spot, took a deep breath, then turned back around to face me. "Simon has disappeared. I don't know where he is. He hasn't had the energy to get off the sofa in months and now he's up and vanished. I'm worried..."

She trailed off with a whimper but I knew exactly what she meant. It wasn't a reality I was willing to consider so I snapped, "Honestly, Bunce, pull yourself together. We don't know anything. Let me get dressed and we'll have a look for him."

Problem was, Bunce was right. Simon hadn't gotten off the sofa in months, which meant he was the proverbial needle in a great big city-sized haystack. It's not like he had any typical haunts, no bars he frequented, or coffee shops. Even before things got bad, the only time he ever really left the flat was for classes and a Starbucks once every blue moon. 

We'd spent pretty much all day wandering around London, trying to think of somewhere where he might be. As night fell and it started getting dark, Penelope and I headed back to their flat in the hopes that he might've returned home in the time we'd been out searching for him. Alas, nothing. No note, no sign of where he might've gone. Penelope had been a blathering mess all day, a quaking bag of nerves as we'd traipsed from bakery to bookshop in the hopes that someone at the very least might've seen him, and I was beginning to feel just as queasy and uncertain. 

We decided to refuel with some crumpets and a cup of tea before heading back out when Penelope's phone rang. Agatha. I barely suppressed an eye-roll. Now really wasn't the time for her to be boasting about the sun, sea and sand she was enjoying all the way in California, not when her (our? My?) ex boyfriend was gone without a trace having been in a depressed trance for months prior. 

Penelope answered the phone with barely suppressed annoyance, probably thinking the same as me, when she suddenly froze. She turned to look at me with a horrified expression on her face as she'd exclaimed, "He's what?"

Which is how, today, I'm sat in an uncomfortable plastic seat in Luton airport waiting for a flight to California in the hopes of bringing the beautiful, broken, stupid idiot home. 

"I mean honestly, Penelope, California. What on earth was he thinking?" I'm saying, more to keep myself busy than anything else. "I mean, does he have a passport? Can you get a passport without anyone vouching for you?"

"Maybe he flew?" Penelope suggests, and when I give her a quizzical look, she flaps her arms like wings.

I think she's joking, but when we share a horrified glance, I realise she also knows that the idiot probably would. I mean, really, California? How does someone even go from catatonic to summer break? And why of all goddamn places California?

"The flight to Atlanta is 9 and a half hours, how're you going to be for food?" Penelope asks after a long silence, lowering her voice. 

I roll my eyes. "9 and a half hours is not an unreasonable time for me to go without- _food_." I hiss. "And if all else fails I'll just eat you."

A middle-aged man walking past clearly hears this part of the conversation and throws a wink at me and oh, good God. Not only is the thought of Penelope and I ever... _Unsavoury_ , at best, but that fact that this is where this man's head goes immediately. What a creep. I change my mind and decide that if it comes to it, I'll eat _him_ instead and probably do the world a favour. Though, maybe I'm just projecting my anger.

Penelope keeps bouncing her leg up and down. She was doing it in the airport and she's doing it again, now, halfway across the Atlantic Ocean. I don't think she even realises it. She's staring out of the window but her eyes are glazed over so I'm not sure she can really see anything. Prompted by a stink-eye from an old woman across the aisle from us, I place a gentle hand on Penelope's knee.

"He'll be fine," I whisper to her when her head shoots round to look at me, almost as though she'd forgotten I was there. 

She shakes her head, eyes tearing up. "Now, maybe. But what happens when we get him home? You haven't seen him these last few days, Baz. I'm scared for him."

I suck in a sharp breath and nod my head. "Me too."

And I am - completely terrified. In all my fantasies of dating Simon Snow, I'd never pictured so much angst. Never imagined that date night would be the two of us squashed on a too-small sofa as Simon found new and imaginative ways to avoid us touching. It was inevitable that we'd bicker, I'm not sure either of us would know how not to, but to walk egg-shells around him for fear that he would snap and not talk to me for days? I never thought I'd be having secret meetings with Penelope Bunce trying to formulate a plan to get Simon to eat a slice of fucking toast every once in a while, or shower, or _move_.

Him running to America (and really, California?) is just the tip of the iceberg, the proverbial straw. Simon hasn't been okay for a while, maybe years. And those kisses that we'd shared in that kitchen, his new tail wrapped around my ankle, his new wings cocooning us, our new life - together - waiting just outside the door. Was that when it started? Whatever this is? Whatever Simon's going through. Was I blind to it for that long? While I was thinking that anything was possible, was he already breaking down? Was he already broken?

There was a lot we, the three of us, never discussed. Not the Humdrum, the Mage, not Simon losing his magic - not magic at all if we could help it. Penelope threw herself into her studies, coming away from her history degree with a first. I had Simon, and for me that was enough. That was everything. Everything else was secondary because I had him, safe, in my arms, not fighting.

Only, maybe there inly the problem. He's stopped fighting. Simon Snow, who had fought his way through everything, who never came across a problem he wouldn't first try to solve with a fist or a sword, who yelled and cursed and growled through life with a ferocity that had always scared and endeared me in equal measures. Suddenly, he wasn't fighting anything anymore.

I guess I thought maybe it was the therapy, it was teaching him how to cope, to control his anger, to relax, stay calm. And I guess I thought he'd be talking to his therapist about all those things he couldn't seem to talk about with me or Penelope. And now I'm in a flying metal box on my way to California, only just realising that I had presumed a lot of things, and maybe I'm a coward for never actually asking the questions.

We land in Montrey Regional Airport after a changeover in Atlanta where we'd phoned Agatha to check Simon was still with her. With just our measly carry on luggage, we hurry through customs and rush to find the taxi. We give the driver the address Agatha gave us, and then sit back just as nervously as we had been on the plane.

It's already far too hot, and I know the humidity is going to wreak havoc with my hair, and every few miles there are signposts for the beach. I hate the beach. The sand and disgusting salty air. Why anyone voluntarily goes there I have no idea. But Simon just had to choose California of all fucking places, and maybe I'm hoping that decision is everything to do with the beach - God forbid - and the sun, and nothing to do with the ex-girlfriend and her mutt up the road. (I'm cowardly, and I'm selfish, because all I keep thinking is that Simon came here to be with Agatha again when I wasn't enough for him.)

The taxi pulls up outside of a quaint little house painted blue, with flowers in the garden, and a swing on the porch. I knew Agatha's parents were forking out the big money for her to be living over here, especially now she'd finished her degree, but I didn't realise just how well-situated she was. A cabbage patch and a welcome mat seem so far beyond any reality I can imagine, that I'm forced to wonder if maybe Simon's not the only one whose not let go of the war. 

We pay the taxi driver, it taking the both of us to figure out the bizarre currency, before standing side by side in font of the house. I wonder if Bunce is feeling the apprehension I am, the same fear about what's waiting for us behind the door. It'll be Simon, but a Simon that remains in a state of depression for months (years?) before taking a spontaneous trip half way across the world. I don't think either of us know what to do with this version of him. 

The door opens and Agatha steps outside. "I think the two of you had better come in," she says frostily, and there goes any hope of a joyous reunion.

Penny and I follow her into the house, noting crochet wall decorations and DIY crate-drawers as we go. The whole interior looks like an inspo board Mordelia has on Pinterest. I simply cannot fathom how anyone could possibly live like this. 

Agatha leads us into an open plan living-room, kitchen space and, lo and behold, sat on the sofa (as though he had to fly across the Atlantic to do that) is Simon. Penny drops her bags and hurries over to him on sight, but I'm frozen clutching my carry on like a lifeline, resisting the urge to lean against the island for support. 

Simon looks up as Penny throws herself at him, wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders. I think she might be crying. He lifts a lethargic hand to her back, and looks over her shoulder at me. There's a complete lack of emotion behind his eyes that makes me want to claw at my own skin a little bit.

"Tea?" Agatha offers.

"You don't have anything stronger?" I reply, only half joking, turning away from the scene in front of me to talk to her. "How did he get here?"

Agatha shakes her head. "I haven't been able to get any sense out of him. He just keeps saying how this is better for everyone." She stops fussing with the kettle and meets his eye. "How long has he been like this?"

Isn't that the million dollar question.

I'm saved from having to answer by the sound of Penny calling Simon's name. Agatha and I both look over to see Simon storming out of the sliding doors, Penny stood dumbfounded by the sofa. She turns to look at us and there are tears trailing down her face. I close my eyes and take a moment to compose myself, before setting my bag down and following Simon out. I squeeze one of Penny's hands and wink at her as I pass, but it's a confidence I don't actually feel. I am so far out of my depth here.

I find Simon sat on the beach, tossing rocks into the water with the kind of brutish force I haven't seen exhibited from him in so long that I find I'm a little nostalgic for it. I sit down next to him, far enough away that we're not touching, but close enough that we can talk without having to raise our voices. I'm sat with a boy who has wings and while I'm aware that American's are a little to the left, I don't think shouting about magical duels and mythical monsters is really the best idea.

"You shouldn't have come," Simon states, finally. "Agatha shouldn't have called."

I looks down at the sand between my legs and start poking a finger down into it. "Yeah," I say to my knees, "Maybe."

"Then why are you here?" Simon asks, blunt as ever.

I pull my finger out and wipe the sand on my jeans. I look out at the sea stretching beyond them into oblivion. I hate the sea. It makes me fall small and insignificant. I'm finding the apathy in Simon's voice is managing a pretty similar job.

"Because," I say, playing for time. "We care about you and we were worried."

"I'm not your problem."

I have to laugh at that. There's not been a day since I was eleven years old - maybe even before that - where Simon Snow hasn't been very much my problem in one respect or another. Kissing or killing each other, our orbits are intertwined. That much is evident.

"Maybe," I repeats. I finally brave a look at Simon who's still frowning at me. "Doesn't really matter though."

Simon shakes his head. "I gave you an out," he says, though it sounds like an accusation. 

I laugh again. "An out? Out of what?"

"Out of this!" Simon sounds exasperated now, and _this_ I know what to do with. This is my childhood in a nutshell. "All of this," Simon gestures vaguely at himself and the beach with one hand, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows.

"Well I don't want it," I reply, surprising even himself with the honesty. Despite what I'd been thinking about on the plane about my cowardice, I hadn't thought for a minute I would actually rectify that. Actively trying to better myself is somewhat of a foreign concept. "I didn't ask for it."

Simon huffs. "I was doing you a favour."

"By making me miserable?"

"I was trying to make you happy!" Simon's pulling at his hair now. Three years ago, he'd have been about to go off.

"I was happy!"

"How?"

"Because I had you!" I realise I'm raising my voice, so I take a deep, calming breath with my eyes closed, before looking back at Simon. "I had you, and that's all I needed."

"I'm not like I was before," Simon replies, sounding very much like a rebuttal.

I feel like we've had this conversation before, but maybe I wasn't really listening then, because I realise what Simon's saying. He doesn't have magic. He's just an angry, socially constipated, not massively intelligent boy, and I loves him the same as I did when I was fifteen years old and he was a supernova.

"I don't care," I reply, then resolves to work on that selfishness thing I mentioned, because hell, I'm already halfway there. "But I know you do. I get it. Or, I don't fully get it, but I get you. I get what you feel." I shake my head. I'm really not making the point I'm trying to here. "What I'm trying to say is that I understand that you feel insecure about losing your magic and everything that's happened since the Humdrum. But I don't care that you're normal now. In fact, it's a bit of a relief. No one should have that much power - literally." I take a deep breath and force myself to continue despite my entire being telling me to up and run. "I just want to do whatever I can to make things okay again and-" I steady myself with another laborious breath, not sure I've ever been this conscious of my own oxygen consumption before. " _And_ , if I get to have you in the process..."

"Why?" Simon asks, and he seems genuinely confused.

I shrug. It's a fair question "The Crucible drew us together, and guess I've been choosing you ever since."

Simon stares at me in the way he does when he's either about to punch me or kiss me. I've learned to brace for both. Instead, Simon reaches out and takes one of my hands. He turns back to look out at the sea. I don't know what this means, if this is a rejection, a sign of hope, the most I can ever wish for. But I'll take it. When it comes to Simon, I'll take whatever I can get. And when Simon shifts a little, so that our legs are pressed firmly together, and his tail wraps around my ankle, something fizzes in the air. Something a little like the feeling that anything (or almost anything) might just be possible. 

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this ages ago and felt like this was the perfect opportunity to finish it. in my head it was going to be more poetic, but we move.
> 
> anyway, if you wanna leave a comment or a kudos they're much appreciated! especially let me know if there's something you think i forgot to tag! i'm really not sure about the rating?
> 
> i'm taking prompts! if you're interested please drop the prompt in the comments below. if you do send a prompt be prepared for me to take fifty years to fill it because school is so hard (or, i guess, uni now, lol), but i promise i'll try! come say hi on tumblr: [@maddy-does](https://maddy-does.tumblr.com/)
> 
> thanks for reading, have a wonderful existence.


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